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Class ^_^l2:5Jl 
Book_iE^_^ 



COFlTOGHT DEPOSrr 



OLD VOICES 



OTHER BOOKS BY 
HOWARD WEEDEN 

BANDANNA BALLADS 
SONGS OF THE OLD SOUTH 




'A BOHEMIAN" 



OLD VOICES 



For love of unforgotten times 



Howard Weeden 




New York 

Doubleday, Page & Company 

T904 



Turn nnniAs Rfwrnved 

AUG 81 1904 



CLAS^ «, XXO. No 

«n a !. i 

COPY B 






Copyright. 1904, by 
Doubleday, Page & Company 
PubIishe(i,,Sef(tsmber, 1504 



Affectionately Dedicated 

To 

Joel Chandler Harris 

By 

His grateful friend 

The Author 





ERE is hope for nobler things 
If such the future brings : 
But O, here's love for everything 
That long ago took wing ! 



CONTENTS 



A Bohemian 

Memory's Feast 

Important News 

A Toilet 

Pantry and Pulpit 

Ole Mistis' Way 

The Old Biscuit Block 

The Palate Wrop 

Me and Mammy 

Mimosa Blooms 

An Old Garden 

A Rose Song 

Time 

Christmas Etchings 

The Rout 

A Voice of the Night 



CONTENTS— Co;;//««a/ 

The Angel of the Dark 
A Study 
A Mystic 
A Wait- 
Acer Spades 
The Problem 
A Veteran 
Vanitv Fair 



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A BOHEMIAN 



ii^' '1 O yes ! I always had a taste 

^* ' J Fer takin' troubles lisfht 



;,'! An' leavin' 'sponsibilities 
s!tj To shoulders dat is white. 

\j, All summer long, things grows so free, 
What need to Vv-ork or btn- ? 



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Dere's plenty lyin' loose aroun' 



• \ Fer sech a womi as I 

i An' when de winter comes along ' '- 

i Why Christmas 'vides fer dat; ^| 

I jes' looks up my ole white folks, : ,| 

An' passes 'round de hat ! i 'J 

In dis way I divides de }'ear ; , 

I You understan' in two — i -I 

j An' trusts de summer-time to God, " i 

'.! De winter-time to — you! ; j 




MEMORY'S FEAST 

I'm sittin' here in Northern ease 

A eatin' baker's bread, 
An" saj'in' grace on by-gone meals 

I ate when Southern fed — 
Dear gumbo, wid red pepper hot, 

Dear rice an' 'possum meat. 
Dear smokin' hominy, rich corn-bread, 

An' beaten biscuit sweet ! 

Why, Lord ! it's filhn' jes' to think 

'Bout nourishment like dat, 
An' I can eat in dreams until 

I feels well-fed an' fat: 
An' all de thanks I tries to give 

For dis here saw-dust bread, 
Is jes' a grace to Memory — 

When I was Southern fed ! 



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IMPORTANT NEWS 

I heerd dat you was goin' back 

To ole Virginie agin, 
An' I would like to send some news 

To my ole friends an' kin : 

Jes' look up my ole Daddy please, 

An' my ole Mammy too; 
An' say to dem I said to you 

I sont my Howdy-do ! 

An' if you sees some fine white folks 

Wid blood dats navy-blue, 
Jes' say to dem I said to you, 

I sont my Howdy-do ! 

An' please find Brother Washington- 
He married me an' Lou — 

An' say to him I said to you 
I sont my Howdy-do ! 

An' if dat Lou herself should still 
Be knockin' round dere too, 

Why you can 'low I said to you 
I sont my Howdy-do ! 



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A TOILET f 

Sometimes you'd think dat Mammy 

was i 

De most tremendous mad, • 

De way she knocks an" cuffs me ' 

round ' 

An' calls me Satan-bad; 

An' all de time, betwixt de cufifs. 



I She's wroppin' of my hair, 

i An' greasin' of my ashy face 
\ An' studyin' what I'll wear; 

' An' den she puts on my red dress- 
5 De one she lately make, — 

I An' bof of us jes' switches off 
I Together to a wake ! 



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PANTRY AND PULPIT 

How did I come to preach, you ask? 

Well, clis here way in part: 
"fwas bein' Master's butler, Sir, 

Dat gave me my first start. 

For after Freedom, when I turned 
For better jobs to search, 

IVIy table-manners was so good, 
I settled on de Cluirch. 

An' so I took to preachin', an' 

It's jes' about dis size: 
It's been my good ole butler-wits 

Dat's made me pulpit-wise ! 



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OLE MISTIS' WAY 

You flighty young folks needn't come 

A-orderin' me no nio' ; 
I'm sot in ways my ole Mis" taught 

An' 'spects to stay jes' so. 
It's hurry wid you aU de time 

As if 'twas jedgment day, 
An' I am caUed of no account 

'Case I ain't made dat way. 

But age an' slowness used to be 

Respected in de race, 
An' I wa'n't asked to be so swif 

When ole Mis' set de pace. 
An' dere wa'n't nothin' in dem days 

Of all dis haste an' noise. 
For 'twasn't manners to be fast 

When me an' Mis' was boys ! 



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THE OLD BISCUIT BLOCK 

Gone are the splendid brave old days 

When cooking was a feat, 
When it stirred one's blood like victory 

Just to hear the biscuit beat ! 

Now the stately kitchens stand 

Forsaken and forlorn, 
And now life's but a cowardly affau- 

Since all the cooks are gone ! 




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THE PALATE WROP 




^■f! Lord, ain't you never heerd before 

M; About a nigger's palate-wrop ? 

f' Why, here is one right on my head, 

:^i Jes' in de middle of de top. 

M}' palate got down bad one time. 
So Mammy said she'd put a stop 

To dat, an' tuk my head in han' 
An' found de right place for de 
wrop. 



An' den she twis' an' twis' an' twis', 
An' den she wrop an' wrop an' 
wrop. 

Till after while de palate flew 

Back to its right place wid a flop ! 

So, if your palate should git down, 
Do as I tell you, and I thinks — 

But what I talkin 'bout? — You's 
u'liiic 
An' got no Mammy, an' no kinks ! 



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AND MAMMY 



Me and Mammy know a child, 

About my age and size, 
Who, Mammy says, won't go to Heaven 

'Cause she's so grown and wise. 

She answers " Yes " and " No," just so — • 
When grown folks speak to her. 

And laughs_ at Mammy and at me. 
When I say "Ma'am" and "Sir." 

And Mammy says the reason why 
This child's in such a plight, 

Is 'cause she's had no Mammy dear, 
To raise her swqet and right, 

To stand between her and the world 

With all its old sad noise. 
And give her baby-heart a chance 

To keep its baby joys. 

Then Mammy draws me close to her 
And says, "the Lord be praised; 

Here's what I calls a decent chile, 
'Case hit's been Mammy-raised ! " 



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The South-winds shake the mimosa awake 

With a shiver as soft as rain; 
The South-wind dies, the mimosa sighs 

And sinks to silence again. 



And oh, but the scent that is faintly lent. 

By the stirred mimosa bloom ! 
One's heart nearly breaks with the thought 
it awakes, 

Oh tender, oh cruel perfume : 



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AiN OLD GARDEN 

I wonder if your memory holds 

A garden old like mine — 
Within its midst, a summer-house 

As lovely as a shrine ? 

Around mine bloomed a world of flowers, 

That scented every breeze; 
And all life's noises have not drowned 

The murmur of its bees. 

And where the roses thickest grew 
And bloomed the deepest red, 

A group of lonely head-stones marked 
Some long-forgotten Dead. 

And there we children lingered oft 
And mused upon each grave. 

With all the passion for the Past 
A happy Present gave. 

And now another Past has crept 
About the old, and spread — 

Till nothing but a Verse will bloom 
In that old garden dead ! 





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A ROSE SONG 



When Sylvia wears a snow}' rose 

Upon her lovely breast, 
I marvel that the rose remains 

So white in such a nest: 
I'd glow till every petal pale 

Had flushed to warmest pink 
And show her in a splendid blush 

How deep a rose could think ! 



When Sylvia wears a crimson rose 

Above her dainty ear, 
I wonder how the rose keeps calm 

With Sylvia's smile so near: 
I'd loose me from the silken hair 

Where she had bade me lie. 
And fall — all red and passionate — 

At Sylvia's feet to die ! 



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She brought away the rose he gave 

Once from a garden fair, 
With eyes that saw but that one rose 

Of all the roses there. 

Now when the patient summers bring 
Their chastened roses red, 

She sees and loves them all because 
Of one rose — long since dead ! 



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CHRISTMAS ETCHINGS 

Christmas in the North; and wide 

And wan the world Hes cold 
In winter-burial deep of snow 

That hides each field and fold; 
And all is still between the vast 

Black sky and vast white earth, 
And life and love have crept within — 

To shelter at the hearth. 

Christmas in the South; and warm 

And brown the earth is stretched— 
And where yon dark field meets the 
clear 

Soft rim of night, is etched 
A lovel}', luminous silhouette 

Of flocks and shepherds calm, 
And one large, melting Star that 
hangs 

Low in a skv of balm ! 



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THE ROUT 

What shall we do, my heart and I, 
Guests here at Life's gay rout, 

If e're the long, long night has waned 
The dreams should all go out ? 

The dreams that lit the tinsel place 
With radiance strangel}^ fair, 

And made its crowded loneliness 
A borrowed joyance wear ! 

The dreams that touched our pulses ti 
The throbbing veins ran wine. 

And kept us glad and unafraid 
And young and half divine ! 

The dreams that helped us to forget 
How dull the hours had grown ; 

How many revellers we loved 

Had said " Good night " — and flown. 

What shall we do, my heart and I, 
Late guests at Life's poor rout ? 

We are so far from home, and see ! 
The dreams are going out ! 






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A VOICE OF THE NIGHT 

Wide and warm lies the Southern nis^O i 

Steeped in purple dusk; 
Calm except for the scented winds 

That stir the jessamine's mttsk, 
And silent — until a sudden Voice 

Piercing the night is heard, 
And the cpiet, fragrant world awakes 

To the song of a Mocking-bird. 

Was it a dream that suddenly stirred 

The sleeping bird to bliss 
And woke his passionate eager heart 

To rapture such as this ? 
( )r was it that, from his lofty nest. 

He saw in the East a ray 
Of faint but certain dawn — and laughed 

Because of Hope and Day ! 




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THE ANGEL OF THE 
DARK 

The quiet night comes softly down, 
Good-bve, dear day, good-bye ! 

The Angel of the Dark is here, 
And in her arms I lie ! 



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Good-bye, dear day, the long, long 
night 

Holds not a single fear, 
Because this Angel of the Dark 

Is just my Mammy dear ! 




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A STUDY 



There on the wall hangs the sketch 
of a Head, 
Unfinished and dim and crude; 
Its weak lines drowned in a splendid 
bhn- 
Of shadows rich and rude. 

Black and calm as an alien face 

Blown from tropic seas; 
Caught in a pose of bland content 

And the rapture of taking its ease. 

Large and massive and richly dark 
With shadows that smoulcier and 
burn ; 
Blank as a sphinx with its l;)rooding 
look 
Of placid unconcern. 



And whether the Artist will finish the 
sketch 
No man, it seems, can know: 
He may give it a touch like dawn 
seme day. 
Or leave it forever — so ! 



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A MYSTIC 

I got religion through a heap 
Of fights wid doubt an' sin, 

An' man}' a time 'twas hard to tell 
If Heaben or Hell would win. 



But one day as I walked to'a'ds home P^ 

Still seekin' peace of min' i . 

I asked de Lord to end my doubts j" 

By givin' me a vSign. [. 

An' suddenly I heerd His voice I 

Say softly, " Gabe, look back;" ■ 

An', lo, de road was smoove-as | 

glass — I 

I hadn't left a track ! f 

So den I knowed dat I was in •[; 

De spirit for a fac" ; ? 

'Cause in de flesh a nigger's foot j^ 

Is 'casion for a track ! ■". 



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A WAIF 

Who made me? Well, 'twas God I 
'spec', 

At least, dat's what is said: 
But how is I to know fer sure, 

Now dat my Mamm}^'s dead ! 

De ether chillun leanis de news 
Right at dere Mammies' side 

An' laughs becase dere's no sich place 
For me, since Mammy died ! 

But one thing I do know, becase 
Hits somethin' Mammy said: 

" Dat Heaben was where a chile would 
find 
Its Mammy was not dead ! " 



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ACER SPADES 

1 )e chillun all tuk after Her, 
A warm, bright ginger-bread, 

Exceptin' little Acer Spades, 
An' he was black instead. 

So, bein' he tuk after uic, 

Why, I tiik after /;/;;;, 
An' dat small little boy he filled 

My heart right to de brim. 

Well — all de ethers dey growed uji 
An' scattered far an' wide; 

An' only one has staA'ed wid me — 
Dat Acer Spades who died ! 



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THE PROBLEM 






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\ ou've made me the Problem of the 
age — 
The Riddle— the Puzzle — the Knot: 
And the nations stand frowning and 
gaining around, 
Trying to unravel the plot. 

And all the while I'm the simplest thing 
Ever made in the image of fun, 

It you leave me alone with a cotton-held 
And a hoe, and plenty of sun ! 



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A VETERAN 

It's curious, when dere's sich a lot 
Of nigger-pensions 'round, 

Dat mine in some strange sort of way 
Aint never yit been found ! 

Of course, sir, I was in de war. 

Me an' my Master too ! 
We lit in at de fus' drum-tap 

An' stayed till hit was through. 



An' I kept always clost to him 
In camp — as clost could be, 

An' in de field as clost, of course. 
As hit was safe for me. 

An', bet your life, we made things 
wami 

All up an' down de line ; 
For " General " was my Master's rank, 

An' body-sergeant mine ! 



But now, when I says " pension,' 
Dey laughs an' says to me: 

You better go an' die, an' git 
Yotn- pension fum ole Lee ! 



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VANITY FAIR 

De Cake-walk hit comes off to-night 
Down yander at Sis Lou's; 

An' I've been sont to git a patch 
Put on her Sonday shoes. 

Oh, won't dem dancers switch around 

All up an' down in twos, 
An' won't day scrape an' stomp dere 
feet 

All in dere Sonday shoes ! 

I seem to hear de banjos play, 

I feel de floors shake, 
I hear de tromp of Sonday shoes. 

An' smell the smell of cake ! 

De Lord knows if I had my way, 
Of all things, I would choose 

To go to dat Cake-walk to-night 
An' Stan' in Sis Lou's shoes ! 




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AUG 



31 1904 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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